


Dead man's lullaby

by too_much_pressure_for_a_username



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Eyepatch Morty - Freeform, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Necrophilia, Incest, M/M, Songfic, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, because making a zombie out of your dead lover isn't good coping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 08:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/too_much_pressure_for_a_username/pseuds/too_much_pressure_for_a_username
Summary: Rick is dead. Morty still needs him. Inspired by Close Encounters of the Rick kind (again), songfic to Karen by the National





	Dead man's lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a songfic before and I really wanted to try it so here it is! This is my take on the Evil Rick from Close Encounters of the Rick kind: basically Rick gets killed on an adventure and Morty can't deal with it, soooo he makes a robot/zombie out of him... this story is from Rick's POV and how he copes with being dead-but-not-really-dead.   
> Again this is my first songfic and I basically had no idea what I was doing so if you have any helpful tips, please feel free to share them with me!

_“S-Son of a bitch, this hurts…”_

_“Rick! Rick, y-you’re gonna be okay… God, y-you’re losing so much blood…”_

_“There is no G-God, Morty, I th-thought I told you that… a hundred t-times…”_

_“Don’t talk, Rick, just, just take it easy… You’ll be fine… Stay with me, Rick. Promise you’ll stay with me.”_

_“I promise, Morty.”_

_“Everything’s gonna be okay, I’ll get us out of here… Rick?”_

_“...Rick?”_

_“RICK!”_

 

 

 Ironically, you’ve never believed in the afterlife.

Despite the many life-threatening situations you’ve experienced, you weren’t sure what to expect about death either. You knew of course that every depiction of it in popular lore --bright flash of light or black-robed Grim Reaper coming to reap your soul-- was simply the result of your brain releasing chemicals in your final moments. In the best case scenario, you hoped it’d be something like a mix between an acid trip and cosmic apotheosis: while it wouldn’t have changed the fact that you were dying and that dying sucked, it would at least have been entertaining.

Whatever dying was like, you don’t remember much from it. Only that it hurt like a bitch.

 

  _Karen, I’m not taking sides, I don’t think I’ll ever do that again_

_I’ll end up winning and I won’t know why_

 

 You never expected to wake up again after that shot --a damn clean one, you had to give it to the eight-legged squishy bastard. The first thing you saw after opening your eyes was Morty, your beautiful sweet Morty staring anxiously back at you.

“You’re awake!” he’d cried out. “Rick, can you see me?”

“Yeah,” you’d answered, realizing at the same time that the blinding pain in your abdomen was gone. You’d looked down at yourself and seen that you were sitting in a reclined chair. The skin on your arms was eerily grey and your fingers had a bluish tint. “I look like hell. What happened?”

“I’m bringing you back, Rick,” Morty had replied with a fierce determination. “I’m helping you keep your promise. Trust me, you’ll be good as new in no time. Stay with me, Rick.”

 

  _I’m really trying to shine here, I’m really trying_

_You’re changing clothes and closing windows on me all the time_

 

 You’d taught Morty well. He did make you as good as new --better even. After a few weeks of physical rehabilitation, you could move your body with little to no effort; it helped that the joint pains that came with old age had vanished along with the joints themselves. Morty had rebuilt you from scratch, given you a new life.

You’d tried to be grateful. You’d tried to tell him you were proud of him. At first, you took every opportunity to hug him and kiss him and show him that everything was alright. But no matter what you did or how much time passed, that anxious look never left Morty’s eyes.

One day, you saw him poking at his eye --the one you know is a fake, a mere receptacle for a bundle of wires that sum up the very essence of your self.

“Are you okay?” you asked him. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s j-just an itch,” he told you, but you saw him wince.

“Let me help you,” you offered, reaching out to him, and he visibly flinched. You stopped dead in your tracks. He’d never done that before.

You suppose you can’t blame him for being paranoid. You’d be too, if you were in his position. Sometimes it still strikes you how easily your roles could’ve been reversed: Morty shot and wounded beyond repair on one of your adventures, you using all your state-of-the-art technology to keep him as close to alive as possible. If Morty was in your case, he’d probably have put a stop to this much sooner: he’d have ripped out the transmitter from your eye and blasted it to smithereens. He'd have told you he'd rather be dead. He wouldn’t have put up with it from the start; he’d have been dead set against it, saying that it was “unnatural” and “wrong.”

He’d been ready to do anything to keep you alive, but this isn’t something he would have wanted for himself. He knows you wouldn’t have wanted it either.

He doesn’t trust you.

You understand.

 

  _Well whatever you do, listen, you better wait for me_

_No, I wouldn’t go out alone into America_

 

 Sometimes he asks you if you still love him. Your lips move and the “yes” comes out before you’ve even had time to think about it. It’s automatic, natural, effortless and mechanical. He gives you a smile so radiant it looks like the sun itself, and you can’t help but smile back fondly.

 

  _Whatever you do, listen, you better wait for me_

_No, I wouldn’t go out alone_

 

Because no matter how fucked up everything is now, you’ll never forget that this smile was everything you lived for.

It still is. Death doesn’t change things like that.

What it does change, unfortunately, is damn near everything else. No matter how you look at it, you’re just not as much fun as you used to be. As a Rick, your uncontrollable nature and unpredictability were a huge part of your charisma --of what made Morty so infatuated with you. You’re not so fascinating now that he knows everything you’ll say and do before it happens: he controls your thoughts, regulates your heartbeat and brain waves. You’re no longer the wonderfully mad scientist who swept him off his feet.

 

_Karen, we should call your father, maybe it’s just a phase_

_He’ll know the trick to get a wayward soul to change its ways_

 

Against your best judgement, you’d offered to give him up to another Rick --a decent one with a mind of his own and enough brains to stay alive, not one of those Citadel sheep.

“So you want to get rid of me,” Morty had said, voice steady and cold, his hands shaking uncontrollably. “You’re sick of me.”

“I’m not sick of y-you, Morty,” you’d sighed. “I j-just don’t think this is really, really ideal, y’know? I could find another Rick for you out there, a-a trustworthy one. Hell, I could even give Birdperson a call. Bet he’d t-take you in.”

That conversation had ended with Morty locked in his room for days and you drinking yourself to oblivion outside his door. So you decided not to give it another try.

That doesn’t stop you from thinking about it though. When you see him skipping meals and sleeping less and less, you wish that there someone out there --anyone-- to take care of him. A dead man can only do so much.

 

_It’s a common fetish for a doting man_

_To ballerina on a coffee table, cock in hand_

 

Morty isn’t the same either.

You’d thought that after so many years, you knew him inside and out. After your death, he seemed to become several different Morties at once.

One day he was cheerful and bubbly and the cutest little sweetheart you’d ever seen: he’d bring you breakfast in bed, surprise you with a fresh batch of K-lax crystal and giggle when your eyes lit up like a kid at a candy store.

The next day he was cold and distant, swatting your hands away whenever you tried to hug him and claiming that he “needed some space.”

Then suddenly he did a 180 and became a needy, horny mess. His usual level headedness seemed to go out the window. He’d make you drive all the way out to an asteroid field then sank down on his knees and sucked you off with such vigor that you almost ripped off the wheel. He’d lead you blindfolded into a federal prison and ask for a quickie in the bathroom stall, two doors away from an alien guard. He’d bring you to the fanciest alien hotels in the galaxy and give you a lap dance in the lobby.

There’s something frantic, almost hysterical in the way he touches you now, in the way he clings to you so desperately as if you might disappear if he lets go.

 

  _Well, whatever you do, listen, you better wait for me_

_No, I wouldn’t go out alone into America_

 

 “You’re mine, Rick,” he tells you every time after sex, as if you need to be reminded. “I’m never letting you go.”

 

  _Whatever you do, listen, you better wait for me_

_No, I wouldn’t go out alone_

 

“It’s okay, baby,” you say to him, melting into his arms. “You know how much I love you.”

It’s not like you’re lying to him. For all you know, he could’ve implanted a chip in your brain, programmed you in some way so you couldn’t not feel this way about him. That’d be fucked up, but then again he is your grandson.

It doesn’t really matter. It’s not like you had much of a choice even back when you were an actual, living being (complete with a whole set of soggy organs stuffed inside a wrinkly-skinned meat suit).

You didn’t choose to fall in love with your grandson of all people.

You didn’t choose to have your insides blown out by that Gromflamite soldier.

You didn’t choose to be brought back to sentience with a bunch of wires stuffed into your skull.

You didn’t choose to be cooped up in this above-ground coffin of a hideout on a planet so far off the grid it might as well be the universe’s asshole, with a Morty who goes from sweet and affectionate and horny to temperamental and infuriating, hammering on your chest with his little fists and screaming _“why can’t you be alive?”_ at you until his voice is hoarse.

 

  _Without warm water in my head, all I see is black and white and red_

_I feel mechanical and thin, hear me play my violin again_

 

Sometimes you think that this new life is more perfect than anything you ever could’ve asked for. You’re living far away from everything else, alone with your Morty whom you can fuck anytime you want without caring what anyone else would think, the Citadel is finally off your asses (because even a bunch of dumbass sheep would know better than to chase after a dead man), and your liver is now indestructible. Hell, with the kind of technology Morty’s used, he’s practically made you immortal; if your artificial brain ever gets badly banged up, he’s got at least a million copies ready for download at any second.

That’s something he’s always been better at than you: predicting stuff. Thinking about the outcomes, the consequences. Preparing for the worst case scenario.

You, on the other hand, have always done the exact opposite: do whatever you want, fuck shit up, and to hell with the consequences. Everywhere you went you left a trail of chaos and destruction in your wake, illuminating the sky like some kind of nightmarish comet. And Morty followed after you diligently --your little shooting star, ever so quiet and patient, careful to pick up the pieces.

That’s probably why he ended up taking care of you, and not the other way around. You should’ve seen it coming.

 

_I’m living in the target’s shoes, all I see is black and white and blue_

_Idle, idle, idle, idle, protect the nest, protect the title_

 

All in all, the afterlife’s not that different from being alive. Morty takes care of you, as he always has. All the things you used to enjoy, you still do --as if something as ridiculous as death could keep you away from drugs, booze, and science. As if death could keep you away from Morty.

 

_Karen, put me in a chair, fuck me and make me a drink_

_I’ve lost my direction and I’m past my peak_

 

Nothing has been lost. You still lie awake in bed with him in the dead of night, screwing like animals or laughing at stupid jokes, or just kissing languidly like you have all the time in the world. You still look at the stars and down bottles of alien liquor together --the stronger the better-- getting progressively drunker and drunker until the stars are blinking back at you and the nebulas have found their way inside your mouth and ears and skull. You still get to hold him every day and feel his skin against yours, his breath quicken against your pulse point; when you bury your nose in his neck, you still get to fill your lungs with the smell of home.

Any memory that you find unpleasant, he can wipe out at the press of a button. Any cool weapon that you want to incorporate to your new cyborg body, he can implant inside you without having to deal with the usual limitations of a living organism. You know he’d never say no to your desires, and you’d do anything to make him happy.

Sometimes it feels like you’re the kings of this world and of all worlds, two sinful and lawless lovers dancing across stars and galaxies and the whole universe can burn for all you care because both of you are so above and beyond it all --nothing has ever been so right.

 

  _I’m telling you, this isn’t me, no, this isn’t me_

_Karen, believe me, you just haven’t seen my good side yet_

 

And then the universe flips over onto its darker side: the drunken haze wears off, the hangover’s a bitch and you see that nothing has ever been so wrong. There are days when you want to burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all --and you do, cackling until you’re holding your sides and you can almost feel yourself suffocating (almost) because hilarity has always been your least unpleasant expression of despair. No one likes a crybaby, and your hysterical guffaws are just as cathartic, just as useless as tears.

 

_Without warm water in my head, all I see is black and white and red_

_I feel mechanical and thin, hear me play my violin again_

 

Nothing can help you then, not even Morty. He wraps you in his tiny arms, offers hugs and kisses and reminds you a thousand times of how much he loves you. You kiss him back, but it doesn’t work: you fill your lungs with the scent of home and remember that you have no lungs, only empty bags; his heartbeat quickening against your chest only reminds you that nothing beats inside yours.

Everything has been lost.

 

_I'm living in the target's shoes, all I see is black and white and blue_

_Idle, idle, idle, idle, protect the nest, protect the title_

 

He gets quiet then, takes your face in his hands. He asks you if it’s too much --if it’s getting too hard and you don’t want to do it anymore. If you want him to wipe it all out and just be done with. He promises it’s okay --he only wants to make you happy. He promises he’ll do it if it’s what you really want.

 

_Well whatever you do, listen, you better wait for me_

_No, I wouldn’t go out alone into America_

 

You always say no. As soon as he hears it, he lets out a shaky breath --and, after a few seconds, a happy little laugh. He looks so fucking relieved every time, like you've just ripped his heart out and shoved it right back into his chest. You smile at him, rub the back of his neck. Tell him you’d never leave your little shooting star behind.

Again, you’re not lying to him. You know you can’t leave. You could never find it in yourself to betray him like that. What kind of grandfather --what kind of _lover_ would you be if you landed Morty in a dangerous world far from his home planet and then left him all alone to fend for himself?

You’ve already left him once. You won't leave him again.

 

_Whatever you do, listen, you better wait for me_

_No, I wouldn’t go out alone_

 

But that “no” doesn’t always come easy to you. You wish you could give him an honest answer. It’s not only that your body is an automaton, a mere puppet piloted by an artificial brain. Your mind is giving out, too: your most precious weapon and possession, the pride of all Ricks, no matter which dimension and timeline. You know you can’t be mad at Morty for it: the kid’s so smart, so smart and brave, but he’s working himself to the bone and you can’t expect him to be on top of his game all the time.

It’s little hiccups that you can’t help but notice are growing more and more frequent: you’ll be in the middle of solving an incredibly complex equation and suddenly find yourself unable to do a simple substraction. You’ll reach for a wrench and out of the blue your arm refuses to move. You’ll be ranting about going on some adventure or other and discover that you can’t for the life of you remember the name of a planet you’ve visited countless times before.

No matter how many times it happens, it’s never predictable: the sudden flash of white, the blank in your brain, the frustration and blind panic that come with it. You’ve never struggled this much for such simple things before: it’s all new to you and wrong, so wrong and fucked up in every way. You’re a _Rick_ ; this isn’t supposed to happen to you.

This is a thousand times worse than getting old.

It’s like confidently walking down a flight of stairs and feeling the solid step slide out from under your foot. It’s walking in a familiar house at night and hearing the wind howl through the cracks in the roof, the walls rattle like they’re barely holding themselves upright. Entire rooms have crumbled down and big holes gape where the floorboards should be.

 

_I must be me, I'm in my head, blackbirds are circling my bed_

_I must be me, I must be me, black feathers are falling on my feet_

 

One night, you’re woken up by the sound of muffled sobs next to you. You roll over on your side only to find Morty’s back turned to you, his face buried into his pillow, chest rising and falling erratically.

“Hey,” you say gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. “H-hey, buddy, M-Morty, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, only cries harder instead, and something bitter rises in the back of your throat. You reach over and wrap one arm around his small frame, your other hand coming up to tenderly ruffle his curls.

“Morty, it’s okay,” you tell him.

“No, it’s n-not,” he hiccups sorrowfully. “R-Rick, I… I miss you so much.”

“I’m right here,” you assure him, but the words sound hollow to your own ears. Morty doesn’t reply and the heavy silence seems to be digging a hole between the two of you, a bottomless pit in which you’d disappear if you tried to cross it.

You hold him tighter, legs curling up in an awkward spooning position. “I know you do,” you whisper into his hair, kissing and shushing and rocking him like a baby until eventually, Morty’s breathing evens out into peaceful snoring.

You tell yourself you’re an idiot for moping around. Morty’s done all he could. You can breathe, sleep, fuck and drink. What else could you want?

So what if your brilliant mind gives out sometimes? The same shit happens to everybody: people get older. If it wasn’t a glitch in Morty’s handiwork, it’d be something else --dementia, Alzheimer’s, who knows.

So what if you don’t actually have a heartbeat? You can still feel something skipping in your chest when Morty smiles at you; you still feel it clench when you hear him cry so hard that he can’t breathe, and damn it, that should be enough.

Because as much as this sucks for you, you’re not the one who’s irredeemably in love with a dead man. You’re not the one who’s living with a literal fucking zombie because he’s got nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to. You can try to forget the truth when it gets too unbearable: relax and give yourself over to the higher power of Morty’s technology. “Don’t think about it,” you tell yourself, because you can.

Morty can’t.

You’ll keep the promise you made: you’ll stay with him, no matter what happens. If the sight of your face is the only thing that keeps Morty from falling apart, you’ll stay. You’ll stay and protect him and do the only thing you can do: tell him that you love him, over and over again.

You wouldn’t leave him even if you had the choice.

 

_Idle, idle, idle, idle, protect the nest, protect the title_

_Idle, idle, idle, idle, protect the nest, protect the title_

 

 

 

 


End file.
